


A Nightmarish Dream

by orphan_account



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M, Post-Mockingjay, post-epilogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 09:08:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/637305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. One-Shot. Katniss and Peeta try to have children, only to find out they can't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Nightmarish Dream

**Author's Note:**

> This was loosely based off of The Odd Life Of Timothy Green. Hope you enjoy it!

I look at Peeta nervously. I know what's coming, I just don't want to accept it. This is what we've been wanting for the past two years. After all this, it can't just come crashing down, can it?  
I whip my head around as the door opens. It's Dr. Trent, who has a sad look on his face.  
My shoulders droop as Dr. Trent sits in the chair across from us.  
"Well," he sighs. He doesn't know how to deliver this news.  
"So?" Peeta asks, his voice shaking.  
Dr. Trent only nods. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."  
I find Peeta's hand and grip it tightly. So that's it then. We're never going to have children. After fifteen years of not wanting children, you'd think I would be okay. You would think I'd feel like I have a huge weight was just lifted off my shoulders, that I would be glad that I'll never have to risk something happening. But I'm not. I feel awful. I can't give Peeta this. I can't give Peeta this one thing. It's all my fault. There won't be a little Mellark.

"This is all my fault." I say.  
Peeta looks at me. "This isn't your fault."  
I sigh. "Yes, it is. I'm the one who can't carry a child, I'm the one who can't give you this. This one thing!"  
"Katniss. Katniss, look at me."  
I turn to face him.  
"It's okay. We'll be okay. It'll be just you and me. I'm perfectly fine with that. Are you okay with that?"  
I nod tentatively.  
"I love you," he tells me.  
"I love you too," I answer.

When we get home, I sit down on the couch and start crying. Everything comes flooding back, and there's no use fighting it. I don't have the energy to do so. Prim exploding in a rain of parachutes, Rue in the meadow, Finnick being eaten by lizard mutts, all the people I've lost.  
Peeta sits down next to me, pulling me into a hug. He doesn't say anything, just holds me there as I sob.  
Fifteen minutes later, when my eyes are dry and I'm on the verge of falling asleep, Peeta rises from the couch and scoops me up into his arms. He carries me up to the bedroom and sets me on the bed. Then, he walks into the closet and grabs something. I'm confused until he sits next to me on the bed and sets the object down. It's the book. The memory book.

We spend the next few hours pouring over the pages of the book. There's a lot of smiling, laughing, and yes, crying. It's not until we get to Finnick and Annie's son's photo that we're both sobbing. The reason unspoken between us, but we both know. There will never be a picture of our child in here. We sob, each of us hugging the other. Peeta doesn't cry that often. He usually tries to stay strong for me. But this is different. This has affected both of us. And although I feel miserable, Peeta has lost any possible chance of being a father. And I know he would have been a great father. He's sweet, funny, and loving. Facing the fact that he will never be a father brings on another round of sobs.  
We both fall asleep, faces wet with tears, holding each other close, with the book open to the photo of Finnick and Annie's son.

The next day, we realize we have to do something about the nursery. I take a breath and brace myself. We walk down the hall together, into the nursery. It's both emotionally and physically straining, but we manage. Peeta decides to leave the painting he did on the wall, because it just doesn't make sense to paint over it. It's a painting of the meadow. It really is beautiful, and thinking about how our child will never get to grow up and sleep in this room makes me feel awful. So we finish up and leave the room. But right before we close the door, I whisper two words.

"I'm sorry."

We learn that it's okay with just us. I still break down and cry over it sometimes. But Peeta is still there, just like always. Comforting me. Peeta will occasionally break down and have a flashback. But I'm always there to bring him back. We help each other. We move on. We keep living. The nursery stays empty. We never go in there. I'm sure it's collecting dust, and I almost want to see the painting of the meadow again. But that's our child's painting. So instead, we go to the real meadow. We dig a hole, and plant a tree there. It represents our unborn child, just like the Primrose's represent Prim. We both mourn people. But life goes on.


End file.
